


Locked Away, Under Silks

by Marquise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Adultery, Control, F/M, Marking, Power Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-20
Updated: 2013-10-20
Packaged: 2017-12-30 00:33:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1011913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marquise/pseuds/Marquise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She had grown quite good at the art of concealment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Locked Away, Under Silks

She had grown quite good at the art of concealment. 

Petyr was proud of her, she could tell. He never spoke of it, though sometimes his eyes would linger on the lay of her clothing, the marks of teeth and grasped fingers hidden well underneath, and there would be a glint in his eye when he saw her staring back. Part of it was pride in his own handiwork, of that Sansa was certain. But there was admiration for her in there as well. _My clever girl_ , he would sometimes whisper when passed him in the halls, his voice making her back straighten. She would often ask him to repeat those words to her in the night, the student desperate for approval even as he filled her, claimed her, gave him the approval of his body again and again. 

He would let them heal sometimes, enough for her to go to Harry and reveal herself and leave her boyish husband ignorant of what his wife’s body had been a canvas for. On the days when she was too marked to show anyone she would please him in other ways or not at all, going to bed with headaches and womanly pains. But it was never so often that he grew suspicious. Sansa wondered if it wasn’t part of Petyr’s plan to chose for her the stupidest heir he could name.

She voiced no objections to that, of course. She very rarely spoke of it, but she had found power under Petyr’s hands, something that she certainly did not find with Harry. Even underneath him, his hands locked tight on her, tangled in her hair, his breath whispering moans of ownership as he fucked her harder and harder (there could be no other word for it, that was what it was) she felt _power_. He was a dangerous man, of this she was certain, and he broke between her legs. He _needed_ her, needed to paint her skin with his desire, needed to make it so that she could not bed another. “Mine,” he would grunt into her ear, over and over again, until she agreed. Then he would spill himself inside her and lay spent in her arms, allowing her to dig her nails into him and whisper his claims of ownership back. 

He had spoken of the power women could attain in their marriages, but not of the power of something like this—an affair, really, though they never called it that. It seemed too inevitable, too brutal and destructive, to give it such a romanticized name. When she pleasured him beneath his desk, her mouth drawing gasps out of him, his page expected to come at any moment, there was no romance in the act. Only a need to soil her further, a need to make him break when it was least convenient.

But it also was not a dance of hatred. She knew that when he held her as she gulped down moon tea in order to hide their actions, as he soothed her when the first brew inevitably came up. There was a tenderness there, mixed with the unspoken sorrow of lost children, something neither of them were too sentimental to dwell upon for long. Perhaps at some point they were, but not now. Now they were steel beings, tainted and stained and meant only for each other. _He knows me and I know him._ What other man would not only be pleased with the woman she had become but would _praise_ her for it? Who else would listen to tales of ambition as she was straddled him, as she took him roughly, only to have him grip her harder, want her more? Look up at her, teeth gritted, and speak to her as a _Queen_?

And all of it, hidden and locked away and silent. Sansa came to relish such secrets; having it unspoken in day made it all the easier to slip into his bed come night. To make him beg with a flick of her tongue, to promise herself to him when his mouth was between her legs, to let go of everything that was holding her in check. And her powered skin and fine silks only met with more approval come the dawn. He didn’t need to see her skin to know who she belonged to.  

And when he would sit at dinner and not press his claimed back against the chair Sansa would smile into her wine. 


End file.
